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1872. 






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THE ARCHER 



Sometimes I bend my random bow, 
And fit an arrow to the string ; 

Then breathe a message soft and low, 
And bid it me an answer bring. 

Forth shoots my shaft into the night ; 

The winged tempest speeds its way ; 
But whither tends its meteor-flight, 

Or what its errand, none can say. 

The message by that arrow borne 
Is to the mark its point may find, 

And to none other ; — on till morn 
It seeks it, quiv'ring in the wind. 

If that one mark may not be found — 
Like wearied bird, when tempest tost, 

The arrow trembles to the ground, 
Its flight untraced, its message lost. 

But oft it strikes some hidden mark 
Of diamond worth, or beauty rare ; 

Knocks at the door of some lone heart, 
And breathes its welcome message there. 



That heart — the loving missive sent — 
Receives and treasures in its fold, 

Finds more than perhaps the archer meant, 
And turns the silver into gold. 

And thus when thoughts within me burn, 
Or some bright truth afar I see, 

I ask no leave — seek no return, 
But draw my bow all fearlessly. 

My shaft may touch some trembling chord : 
Enough ! I have not shot in vain ; 

It may fall bootless — a lost word : 
Xo matter, I will shoot again. 

For sometimes a sweet voice I hear, 
(By none but me that voice is heard,) 

Which steals into my list'ning ear, 

Whisp'ring, " God bless you for that word 



THE ANGEL "DIFFICULTY." 



" Sorrow — Joy — Pain — Difficulty ; — these, too, are Angels of the 
Almighty." 



I am one of those bright Angels 
Passjiig earthwards — to and fro ; 

Heavenly messengers to mortals, 
Now of gladness, now of woe. 

Might I bring from the Almighty — 

Strength from Him who maketh strong ; 

Not as alms I drop the blessing, 
From my grasp it must be wrung. 

Child of Earth ! I come to prove thee ; 

Hardly — sternly — with thee deal ; 
To mould thee in the forge and furnace, 

Make thine iron tempered steel. 

Come, then, to my rough embraciug, 

I thy rugged nurse will be ; 
I will nurse thee as the tempest 

On its bosom nursed me. 

T will sing of Night and Thunder, 
Rock thee on the rolling deep, 

Teach thee with the storm to wrestle, 
Cradled on the wave — to sleep. 



'Neath the starless vault we'll wander, 
Climb the mountain's pathless side, 

Buffet with the roaring torrent, 

Seek the field where brave men died. 

Thus I'll make thee strong and noble, 
"With the strength to angels given ; 

Striving ever — fearing never, 

Conquering earth, and trusting Heaven. 

Come then, and in loving warfare 
Let us wrestle, tug, and strain, 

Till thy breath comes thick and gasping, 
And the sweat pours down like rain. 

Till thy limbs, in battle hard'ning, 
Knit like iron bands shall be, 

And thy spirit, oft defeated, 
Win at length the victory. 

Man with Angel thus contending, 
Angel-like in strength shall grow, 

And the might of the Immortal 
Pass into the mortal — so. 



PAIN 



Awful Power ! whose birth-place lies 
Deep, mid deepest mysteries : 
Thine the cry of earliest breath ; 
Born in Birth — entombed with Death. 
Surely, Pain ! thy power shall die, 
When Man puts off mortality. 

Awful mystery ! can it be 

Mercy's name is writ on thee ? 

That thou earnest from above, 

Angel of the God of Love ? 

While thou scourgest, tell us why — 

What message speak'st thou from the sky ? 

Secrets dread hast thou to show ? 
Knowledge, which God's sons must know ? 
Power to purge and purify ? 
Human pride and strength defy ? 
Make man's stony nature feel ? 
Mould his ore to tempered steel ? 

Or is thine the power alone 

So to tune our dull earth-tone, 

To that diviner, holier strain 

Even Love and Grief attempt in vain, 

Such as opens hearts to see 

What meant the Cross of Calvary ? 



Perhaps some door is clos'd in heaven 
Whose Key to Pain alone is given ; 
And only thine all-powerful hand 
Can open to the onward land ; 
While spirits none shall enter there, 
But those baptized in suffering here. 

This one thing I ask of thee ; 

Only this one answer me : 

Com'st thou from the Heavenly Seat ? 

Lead'st thou to my Father's feet ? 

Do I suffer not in vain ? 

Art thou God's true Angel— Pain ? 

Then I'll try to say that word, — 
" In the name of God the Lord 
Welcome art thou." But whate'er 
Thou bringest, bring me strength to bear. 
Spare not : 'tis my Father's will ; 
I can meet it— -and be still. 



S. G. 



December 15th, 1868. 



JOY 



How beautiful on mountain side 
Is he who doth glad tidings bring ! 

How swift his feet descending glide ! 

How glad his song doth downward ring ! 

The sunshine bathes the laughing earth ; 

The cloud across the welkin flies ; 
Hills clap their hands, and shouts of mirth 

From tent and city heavenward rise. 

Man's face is gay — man's heart is light ; 

And sighs and tears are all forgot : 
Land, Ocean, Cloud, and Sky are bright ; 

Earth holds not now one sadden'd spot. 

For o'er the land glad tidings ring ; 

The nation's heart is drunk with glee ; 
One song of joy all people sing, 

And man with earth holds Jubilee. 

And perhaps to some o'erflowing heart 
A deeper joy this day is given, 

Which silently it takes apart, 

And dwells an hour alone in Heaven. 



2 



To those glad thousands it is Peace ( 
Deliverance from some bondage dire : 

To that one heart 'tis sweet release 
For prison'd lover, child, or sire. 

How beautiful upon the hills 

Stands the bright messenger of Heaven ! 
How gloriously to-day fulfils 

The mission by his Master given ! 

But pausing there, he seems to say, 
With parting wave of beckoning hand, 
" Farewell, bright Earth ! I cannot stay ; 

I'm hastening toward the homeward land. 

M For one short hour I linger here, 

To drop the blessing Love hath given ; 
Then seek I my own brighter sphere, 
And fold my wings at home in heaven/' 



December, 1868. 



Schiller's Last Words :—" I begin to see many things plainer 
and plainer." 



Clearer and clearer 
The vision is growing,. 
As nearer and nearer 
The dark river is flowing. 

Brighter and brighter 
The cloud-lajid is heaving ;: 
Lighter and lighter 
The Earth I am leaving. 

The mists are departing, 
That so dimm'd my sight ; 
And thro' them are darting 
The stars of the night. 

The words of God's writing,. 
The signs of His hand, 
Unread by the living,. 
Death can half understand.. 



Dark questions that troubled 
The dreams of the night, 
Are silently answer'd 
By the dawning of light. 

As I put off the mortal, 
Preparing to soar, 
I catch the bright portal, 
Where night enters no more. 

The clouds and the darkness 
That shrouded my God, 
They are breaking — dispersing, 
I see His abode. 

Clearer and clearer, 
The glory beholding, 
As nearer and nearer 
The Gates are unfolding. 

Aloft I am flying : 

Earth ! take my last breath ! 

How glorious is dying, 

When Light comes with Death ! 



Second Edition/ 



THE TRANSFIGURATION. 



" Master ! it is good for us to be here. Let us make three taber- 
nacles, one for Thee," &c. 



" Stay, Master, stay, upon this heavenly hill ; 
A little longer let us linger still ; 
With these two mighty ones of old beside, 
Near to the Awful Presence still abide : 
Before the gates of light we trembling stand, 
And touch the veil that hides the spirit-land. 

" Stay, Master, stay ! we breathe a purer air ; 
We soar aloft in commune, praise, and prayer : 
Thoughts, feelings, flashes, glimpses, come and go : 
We cannot speak them — nay, we do not know ; 
Wrapt in this cloud of light, we seem to be 
The thing we fain would grow eternally." 

"No ! " saith the Lord, " the hour is past : we go : 
Our home, our life, our duties lie below. 
While here we kneel upon the Mount of Prayer, 
The plough lies waiting in the furrow there : 
Hear we have sought to learn His heavenly will : 
There we must do it — serve Him — seek Him still." 



If man aspires to reach the Mount of God, 
O'er the dull plains of Earth must lie the road. 
He who best does his lowly duty here, 
Shall soar the farthest in that loftier sphere : 
In God's high work we find his promised rest ; 
And he is nearest Him who serves Him best. 



S. G. 






THE TRANSFIGURATION. 



On Hermon's mountain solitude 
Watch'd apart the chosen Three : 
Silent, awe-struck, there they stood 
Not a breath o'er rock or tree 
Whis per'd thro' the conscious air : 
flighty Nature rnus'd in prayer. 

On the fresh, green mountain sod 
There the Mighty Master knelt : 
He was now alone with God ; 
And the silent watchers felt, 
Mid the stillness breath'd around, 
All the place was hallo w'd ground. 

Suddenly a glory shone, 
Radiant from that kneeling form, 
Over mountain, tree, and stone : 
Not like flash from lightning storm, 
Or as flood of noon-day light — 
Calm and holy, soft yet bright. 



From that rapt communing face, 
From his garment's glistening fold, 
Streamed those bright, transfiguring rays 
Which some tale of heaven-birth told : 
God was claiming here His own ; 
The Father — shining thro' the Son. 

And in glory near him stand 
Two bright forms of Prophet mould, 
Mortals from the Immortal Land, 
Who high commune seem to hold : 
Wherefore come they ? Can they show 
Things Messiah doth not know ? 

As the wondering watchers gaze, 
As, half heard, some heavenly tone 
Tunes to sound those silent rays — 
'Tis as Time, Earth, Sense, were gone, 
And to mortal men were given 
To watch beside the Gate of Heaven. 

Soon that Gate unfolding wide, 
Forth there roll'd a radiant cloud, 
Wrapp'd them in its volumed tide 
Like a dim yet shining shroud : 
Prophet, Lord, Earth, Heaven, were gone ; 
Each hush'd spirit stood alone. 



Yet 'twas darkness — born of light : 
Blinded by the heavenly flood, 
Dimness fell on mortal sight ; 
Man beyond the border stood. 
Nought was seen — yet God was there, 
Glory ! Glory ! filled the air. 

Thus 'tis ever, as we rise, 
Soaring far from all we know, 
Towards the eternal mysteries ; 
Bright, but dim — the visions grow : 
Mortal powers for Earth were given, 
Not to pierce the veil of Heaven. 

Moments are there, not unknown — 

Even to Earth's dull life allowed, 

When our spirits, thus alone, 

Climb the mount — where sleeps the cloud 

Think to gaze on realms afar, 

Or behold some new-found star. 

But in vain so high we soar ; 
'Tis but entering a bright cloud : 
Wrapp'd in light we see no more : 
In the light we find the shroud ; 
Yet must hallow'd be the road, 
Climbing ever towards our God. 



SIC TRANSIT. 



Yes ! after all this striving — 
This scheming and contriving ; 
These anxious cares, these trembling fears, 
Beckoning hopes, and prayerful tears ; 
Gathering — hoarding — hiding, 
Scattering, and dividing ; 
Ploughing in toil and sorrow, 
For some bright harvest to be reap'd to-morrow : 
Enter Great Death ! 
Commands the lights to cover ; 

Drops the dull curtain, 
And the Play is over. 



WHAT IS EELIGION? 



What is Religion ? Tis Man seeking God ; 
Enquiring — climbing towards His bright abode : 
. Striving to know, to do, to bear His will, 
Growing for ever nearer, nearer still. 
By thousand paths we climb that Mount of Rest : 
Is there not one of all these ways the best ? 
Yes : that is best for each aspiring soul 
Which leads it surest towards the Heavenly goal. 
There is no one broad way for all to go, 
Where none can wander, and which all may know. 
Then heed not thou where other mortals tread, 
But let thy gaze be toward the mountain-head ; 
Fix eye and heart w T here clear that towering height 
Alone stands bathed in Heaven's refulgent light : 
Then climb and climb for ever towards the day, 
And fear not thou shalt miss the one true way. 



CHRIST AND CHRISTIANITY. 



How wide the gulph that ever seems to lie 

Still between Christ and Christianity ! 

How men will dwarf a theme itself so great ! 

How they will narrow Heaven's wide open gate ! 

Pare down a Faith into a barren Creed — 

With empty husks the famished spirit feed ! 

Still darkly lingering in the outer night, 

As if within there burned a flame too bright ; 

As if to touch the veil they must not dare, 

Nor wake that awful Voice they dread to hear. 

With foot upon the ladder's lowest round, 

Their aspirations seek no loftier bound : 

Enough is theirs — their wishes ask no more : 

Content to walk, they do not seek to soar ; 

Content to tread the rescued sinner's road, 

They miss the broad light where Man walks with God. 

The Church that Christ would build is all too wide ; 

Mankind within its mighty dome could hide ; 

Too many would crowd in the courts to till : 

We must divide — be Jews and Gentiles still. 

Or, if one Church should all mankind embrace, 

It must be still our Church — our Creed — our Race, 



The Christian cannot grasp the great Christ-thought : 
Heaven's light the darkness comprehendeth not. 
How to such dull disciples might the Lord 
Speak yet again that sad reproving word, — 
'• Ah. Philip ! hast thou known me, then, so long, 
Yet still, unknowing, can so read me wrong ? " 



January, 1869. 



ELIJAH ON MOUNT CAEMEL. 



The sun blaz'd down from his fiery throne : 
Thro' heaven's wide circuit he reign'd alone ; 
And nothing was hid from his scorching eye 
On the earth below, or above in the sky, 
The fields that once had been green and fair, 
Were now like the desert, parch'd and bare, 
And men stood silent in grim despair, 

For the Heavens were as brass above them. 

For three long years they had watch'd in vain 
For the summer's dew or the winter's rain ; 
But the dew it fell not on Hermon's hill, 
And the hot, red vault it was cloudless still. 
The traveller veil'd his aching eye, 
And the panting herd stood groaning by, 
And nought could they do but gasp and sigh, 
And nor word nor goad could move them. 

A Prophet stood on the mountain's brow, 
Where Carmel is yet in his beauty now ; 
Around him Israel's people stand, 
Thousands by thousands on either hand : 
Below is the wasted, burning land, 
And the wide blue sea before them. 



2 



On that mountain side are two altars of stone ; 
Of the Prophets of God there is left but one ; 
But four hundred and fifty of Baal's band 
Around their leader in order stand, 
With girded loins and uplifted hand, 
And the firmament flaming o'er them. 

" Ye men of Israel, hear my word ! 
Is Jehovah or Baal the Sov'reign Lord ? 
To whom do you lift your suppliant eye ? 
To whom send forth your daily cry ? 
Ye worship ye know not whom or why." 
And they answered him never a word. 

" Now lay your gift on the altar stone, 
For ye are many, and I am one ; 
And the God who shall answer our separate prayer, 
And drop his fire through the burning air, 
By that same God ye shall henceforth swear." 
And they said, — " He shall be Lord ! " 

The Priests of Baal in order stood ; 
They laid on the flesh, and they pil'd up the wood, 
Then wildly shriek'd their idol-prayer ; 
But no voice nor sound was heard answering there, 
And no fire fell through the startl'd air, 
Obedient to their call. 



At the hour of the evening sacrifice, 
When a nation's prayer should heavenward rise, 
The Prophet of God himself drew near ; 
And the people held their breath to hear, 
And upward they look'd, between doubt and fear, 
To see if the fire would fall. 

" God of our Fathers ! hear my cry ; 
Now speak in fire from thy throne on high ; 
Let Israel know that Jehovah is Lord, 
That thy servant hath spoken his Master's word, 
That thou art the Shield and thou art the Sword : 
Now — let the sign be given." 

He spoke ! upturn'd was every eye ; 
Down fell the bolt from the burning sky, 
Down through the still, calm evening air, 
Down, like the comet's rushing glare : 
Then burst in fire from the altar there, 
And flam'd from Earth to Heaven. 

S. G. 



THE BUKDEN OP BABYLON. 

Isaiah xiv. 4. 

Fallen! Fallen! Fallen! 

City, King, and Throne ! 
The iron sceptre broken, 

The Oppressor gone. 

The whole earth is at rest ; 

The weary now may sleep ; 
The watching eye no longer 

Its vigil keep. 

Where late were sighs and sadness, 
The shout of joy is ringing : 

The nations heart of gladness 
Breaks forth in singing. 

Son of the Morning Star, 

Enthron'd on high : 
How art thou fallen from Heaven, 

In dust to He ! 

In dust, where side by side 

Sleep King and Slave : 
Glory, and Pomp, and Pride, 

Low in the grave. 



2 



Scourge of man's suffering race ! 

Fallen is thy throne : 
Earth fears no more thy face ; 

Hell claims its own. 

All Death's dark realm below 
Is stirr'd, thy steps to meet ; 

And sounds of scorn and woe 
Thy coming greet. 

Round throng the mighty Dead ; 
They scan thee narrowly : 
" What ! thou, too, melted to a shade, 
All weak as me ! 

" Is this the man whose nod 

Could bid the kingdoms quake ? 
Who ruled the earth as God, 
And mountains brake ? 

" He thought to him was given 
The power of Gods divine ! 
He thought to scale the Heaven, 
With stars to shine ! 

" No captive's chain he broke ; 
He burst no dungeon gate ; 
No glad deliverance spoke 
To small or great. 



( And now he, too, is come, 

Where King and conquer'd lie, 
The refuge, rest, and home 
Of poor Mortality." 

The Chiefs of Earth are laid 
Enshrin'd in kingly tomb, 

The glory of the Dead, 
Waiting their doom. 

But thou ! like unclean thing, 
To desert sands art cast : 

The carcass once a King 
Now feeds the Beast ! 

Thy bleaching bones no sepulchre 
Shall guard from foeman's tread 

No mountain Pyramid shall rise 
Above the Dead. 

The mighty name of Babylon 
Shall be remember'd not ; 

No mound or sculptur'd stone 
Shall mark the spot. 

Fallen! Fallen! Fallen! 

Levell'd all, and gone ; — 
Men shall not know where stood 

Great Babylon ! 



March, 1869. 



" I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them 
now." 



Christ has many things to say 

To souls that can His message bear ; 

But He throws not pearls away 
Where He finds no listening ear. 

As the soul can more receive, 
Still the more does He bestow : 

As our faith doth more believe, 
Still His revelations grow. 

All the thirsting soul doth seek, 
All the waken'd thought can hold, 

That doth Jesus freely speak, 
That to listening hearts unfold. 

Thus the light to Christians given, 
Measured by their power must be, 

To receive this gift of Heaven ; 
By each one's capacity. 

The Master to His saints will speak 
All their souls as yet can bear : 

Wanting more, themselves must make 
Worth v. able, more to hear. 



January, 1869. 



A number of young artists had agreed to express, in 
colours, their various fancies as to the word "Whither." 
While they plied their brushes, I scratched with my pen* 
The following are my scratchings. 



WHITHER? 



Where I wake a note of gladness — 
Where sweet smiles my coming greet ; 

Where I smooth the brow of sadness, 
Thither lead my willing feet. 

Where I bring a ray of morning, 
To light up some sombre scene ; 

Or bright hopes and loves rise dawning 
Where of late my steps have been. 

Where some strings are out of tuning, 
And the chords don't quite agree, 

And a little glad communing 
Melts all hearts to harmony. 

Or w r here clouds that round me gather 
Quick dissolve in sunshine there ; 

And in some bright, loving presence, 
My soul breathes a purer air. 

Thither, lov'd one, thither lead me, 
Where life's sunbeams sweetly shine : 

In such welcome pastures feed me ; 
Such be ever thine and mine. 



WHITHEE? 



THE COMET. 

Strangest Star that shines on high ! 

Flaming wanderer of the sky ! 

From the far abyss of space, 

Rushing to the sun's embrace : 

In thy wild mysterious round, 

Whither, Comet, art thou bound ? 

What the goal where thou art gone ? 

Or, for thee, goal is there none ? 

Dost thou wander — ever, ever — 

Roving, rushing — resting never ? 

Or is there some certain track 

Centuries hence to bring thee back, 

And astonish generations 

Not yet born among the nations ? 

Say, too, in that far unknown, 

Whence thou comest — and art gone ; 

W T hat celestial wonders lie 

Beyond ken of mortal eye : 

Where new worlds are lost or making, 

Suns are burning, systems breaking, 

Creation's hand its work undoing, 

And thousand wonders past our knowing. 

Comet ! as thou whirlest by, 

Drop some answer from the sky. 



WHITHEE? 



Whither, Lord ! afar from Thee — 
Whither shall my spirit flee ? 
Where — by Thee unseen, unknown, 
Could I fly, and dwell alone ? 
If to Heaven I wing my flight, 
There Thou sit'st, enthron'd in light ; 
If I dive to depths below, 
There's the Omnipresent too : 
If on Morning's wing I fly, 
On Earth's farthest rim to lie, 
There thy Hand thy child shall hold, 
Thine embrace my life enfold. 
If in night I seek to hide, 
Morn the gates doth open wide : 
Darkness is a name for Light : 
Both are one before thy sight. 
Ah ! I thank my spirit's Lord 
For that holy Prophet-word, 
That from Thee I cannot fly — 
That God, my Father, still is nigh. 
Ever, Lord ! so let it be : 
Take my soul to dwell with Thee. 



WHITHER? 



Dim Child of Earth ! 
With eye uprais'd to Heaven, 
No record of thy birth 
To thee is given : 
The rockings of thy cradle are but known 
To One alone. 

Thou seek'st to fathom far that hidden past ; 
To reach the shore thine infant being bounding : 
In vain thy plummet toward the abyss is cast ; 
The line's too short for such a Deep- Sea sounding. 

But the Eternal Future lies before thee : 
Whence thou dost come 'tis plain we cannot know ; 
But thro' the cloud that spreads its shadows o'er thee, 
Say, — whither dost thou go ? 

What realm unknown, thro' all the bright creation, ' 

Shall be thy dwelling-place ? 
Where, rapt in joy and holy aspiration, 

Thou shalt behold His face. 



6 



We point our telescope to search the Ages : 

We find no star ! 
Thou ponderest over Revelation's pages : 

What read'st thou there ? 

Upon that page one written line I see ; 
The hand I know : — 
" Where I am, there my servant) too, shall he." 
To Him I go. 



April, 1870. 



THE NEEDLE 



1 True as the Needle trembles to the Pole.' 



Teembling — softly trembling — 
Toward the viewless Pole, 

As its steel were living, 
And embraced a Soul. 

Eager wings outspreading 

To yon home to fly ; 
Burning with the Element 

Whose thunder shakes the sky. 

Watching — watching ever 
That lone central Star, 

Which for aye unchanging 
Burns in light afar. 

Wave and land exploring, 
Pointing homeward still, 

As if no found treasure 
Its desires could fill. 



As it were a Fragment 
Of some mighty whole, 

Doomed awhile to exile 
From its Parent Soul. 

But believing, trusting, 

Still untiringly, 
In that fiery Homeland 

Where its rest shall be. 

Thus the Heaven-born Spirit, 
Bound awhile to Earth, 

Turns its Heart's deep longings 
Towards its Home of birth. 

Spreads its struggling pinion 

Upward to the sky : 
Through the Mortal, touching 

Immortality. 

Feeling as its Soul-fire 
Might a Fragment be 

Of that God, whose presence 
Fills Infinity ! 

Not with Ear to hear Him ; 

Not with Eye to see ; 
But within to feel Hi?n, 

Stirring — tremblingly. 



Reaching ever onward ; 

Daring still aspire ; 
Till the soaring Spirit 

Win its full desire- 

In His arms enfolded ; 

At His feet laid down ; 
Anchored in the shadow 

Of the Eternal Throne. 



A 



THE UNKNOWN. 



I float upon the bosom 

Of a boundless sea, 
Without horizon line, 
One dim immensity. 
The countless waves of Ocean 
In ceaseless movement play ; 
And tides of sound roll murmuring round, 

But I hear not what they say ; 

And one lone star shines faint and far, 

With solitary ray : 

It gleams across an unknown sea 

Of dumb, dim, deep Immensity ! 

I stand before an Altar 

Built in ages gone : 
Through all time, 
In every clime, 
In every varying zone, 
Sinai-like, sublime — alone. 
Nations kneel in worship 

Bound that Altar Stone, 
Millions all adoring ; 

Apprehending i none ; 
And above in light is writ : 
" To the God unknown ! " 



2 



I look into my own heart ; 
I throw my fathom line, 
To sound the seeming shallows 

Beneath the billowy brine. 
But deeps yet deeper grow, 

As lines run out : 
Myself I cease to know, 
My very being doubt. 
The rock-point that I stood upon, 
Beneath the rising tide is gone : 
I stand amid the w-aste alone, 
Myself unto myself unknown. 

Yet still — yet still, I glow 
With mad desire to know ; 
I dive to depths below, 
Deep — deeper — deeper go. 
I gaze — I listen round ; 
I pierce the dark profound : 
Then — then, on soaring wing, 
To heights of glory spring, 
And question every Star 
That bums in light afar .; 
And each mysterious tone 
That seems to murmur from the dark Unknown. 



But as I leave the dim, but nearer, light, 
Still darker closes round the deepening night : 
The more I seek, the less my searchings find : 
And as I gaze, I more and more grow blind. 
Night — Night is everywhere : 

The only sun-ray given, 
Gleams round my pathway here, 
And points to Heaven. 



February, 1871. 



THE CHARGE OF THE SIX HUNDRED. 



Forth six hundred horsemen go, 
Flash their sabres keen and bright ; 
On their plumes the sunbeams glow, 
On their face the battle's light : 
Loud the clarion trumpets sound, 
Thunder shakes the echoing ground. 

Wherefore ride they none can tell ; 
Who the blundering order gave : 
Pity they who ride so well, 
Ride but to a bootless grave ; 
Fearless, reckless, on they go, 
Watchful wait the wondering foe. 

Forth the deadly lightnings flash ; 
Forth the bellowing thunders roar ; 
Thro' their ranks the death-bolts crash ; 
Down they go — behind — before, 
Rolling on the bloody plain, 
Ne'er to charge or cheer again. 



Forward still ! — the dead may stay, 
On the living yet must speed ; 
Pause not in the fiery way, 
Nations watch your desperate deed : 
Quench the madness of the story 
In the brightness of its glory. 

Down the jaws of death they ride : 

Trails behind a gory track : 

On they go — still side by side, 

Forward ever — none look back : 

Burns one thought in every breast, 

To reach the foe ; — please Heaven the rest. 

Cease the guns ; and clear and high 
Above the strife and clang of war, 
Hark ! I hear their battle-cry 
Ringing o'er the field afar ; 
Thanks to Heaven, there live some }^et 
To pay their comrades' bloody debt. 

See ! the avenging blades are flashing, 
Up and down the lightnings gleam, 
Horse and horseman wildly dashing, 
Tossed like foaming billows seem : 
On our ear, like muffled drum, 
Swells the distant battle hum. 



Now reverse the sounding song : 
See those flashing blades again, 
Bursting through the scattering throng, 
Backward seek the opening plain ! 
Few there ride the ranks to fill, 
But they ride unbroken still. 

Ride ! ye brave ones — ride for life ; 
Well ye've won a soldier's meed : 
Heroes in the onward strife, 
Vainly now T ye gasp and bleed : 
First and last this fatal day, 
Homeward cleave your fiery way. 

On they come ! torn — panting — bleeding, 
Staggering o'er the encumbered plain, 
Like a broken wave receding, 
Backward rolling to the main : 
Helmets drooping — riders stooping, 
Dauntless hearts — and dying men. 



S. G. 



December, 1854. 



TO MY SWOKD. 



Forth to light ! my battle brand ! 
Greet the morning's reddening ray ; 
Faithful to my trusting hand, 
Wake to Freedom's christening day. 

How dost feel, my maiden Sword ? 
Glows thy gallant heart like mine ? 
Dost thou own thy youthful Lord, 
Hand in hand thus clasp'd in thine ? 

While thy blade is clean and bright, 
Take my morning's loving kiss : 
Ruder greeting, ere the night, 
Shall thy steel flash back than this. 

Forth to Freedom's fight we go ! 
Lov'd one ! now be strong and true : 
Yonder comes the tyrant foe ; 
Round us press the patriot few. 



On our battle-grave we stand ; 

Night ma}' see us in it lie ; 

But though here for Fatherland 

Sword should break, and swordsman die 

Hilt in hand well march on death ; 
Make our first our latest fight : 
Then my shroud shall be thy sheath, 
And our parting hymn, " Good night ! " 



April, 1870. 



MY BATTLE PKAYER. 



Fathee ! on bended knee, 

In silent prayer, 
How oft I've knelt to Thee, 

And felt Thee near ; 
And now, on battle-plain, 

Mid storm and death, 
To Thee I lift again 

My latest breath. 
O hear me, Mighty One ! 

Lead Thou me on. 

Thou knowest my heart's prayer : 

'Tis not for life ; 
But be thy Spirit near, 

Through this dread strife. 
Yea, Father ! make me strong 

To dare and do — 
Worthy to stand among 

The Brave and True : 
Be near me, Mighty One ! 

Lead Thou me on. 



Yes, Father ! let me tread 

Where they are gone : 
Though but to share their bed. 

I would press on. 
With them my lot would be, 

Or dark, or blight ; — 
With them shout " Victory ! " 

Or say — " Good night ! " 
Be near me. Mighty One ! 

Lead Thou me on. 



When dawned my lowly birth. 

Thou blest me then : 
If now I sink to earth. 

Bless yet again. 
The Land I love below 

This day shall free : 
And if to Death I go, 

I come to Thee, 
My Father !— Mighty One. - 

Receive thy Son. 



THANKSGIVING DAY, 

FEBRUARY 27th, 1872. 



The heart of the Nation has spoken ; 

Its voice is let loose on the wind : 
The links of that chain are unbroken, 

Which Monarch and People entwin'd. 

Let dreamers and madmen declare 
That Loyalty's spring has run dry : 

Our answer is rending the air ! — 

That Nation-shout gives them the lie. 

Hark ! Hark ! to the roar that is swelling 
From the west to that wonderful Dome ! 

To the Nations of Earth it is telling 
That the Queen of the Isles is at home. 

Aye ! her home in the hearts that surround her, 
The Loyal, the True, and the Brave ; 

And the love that from girlhood has crown'd her, 
Shall be her's till she sleeps in the grave. 

Deep calleth to Deep in its thunder ; 

But the note of the music is one : 
Accursed be he that would sunder 

Our People from Altar and Throne. 



The prayer that from Earth is ascending 
To the God of all mercy and love, 

Without discord or jar may be blending 
With anthems of Angels above. 

We shout for no battle-field won ; 

No down-trodden foes at our feet : 
Not a tear — not a sigh or a groan 

Shall echo the song of our street. 

With our Hymn of Thanksgiving to Heaven, 
For our Prince and the Land of his birth, 

A prayer for mankind shall be woven, 
And Peace and Good- will upon Earth. 

S. G. 



THE RHINE SONG. 

July, 1870. 

Rhine ! thou mighty Rhine, 
Flow on for ever ! 
Of German Fatherland 
First, brightest river. 

Gallic stream shall thou 
Be baptised never ! 
Flow on, loved one, flow : 
Ours to-day — for ever ! 

Name the German rivers, 
Crown'd with corn and wine : 
Danube, Elbe, Main, Weser ; 
Last and greatest — Rhine ! 

Leave France France's waters ; 
Heaven upon them shine : 
Rhone, Loire, Seine, Garonne, 
But no German Rhine. 

France may drink its fountains, 
Cleave its rushing Hood, 
Pour it o'er her meadows, 
Stain it with her blood : 



Wake its sleeping echoes 
With the trump of war ; 
Stamp invading hoof-prints 
On its eastern shore. 

Many things she may do ; 
This one — never ! — 
Make our German Rhine 
A Frenchman's river. 



July 13, 1870. 



SONG OF THE BOULEVARDS. 

July, 1870. ■ "Avant!" 

Blow the trumpet, blow : 
Fling the banner wide : 
Forward ! on we go 
To tame the Teuton pride. 

Vive la Guerre ! la Guerre ! 
Bid its thunders roll : 
What like glorious war 
Stirs the torpid soul ? 

Our old laurels fade ; 
Gather fresh and new : 
Rust bedims our blade ; 
Keep it bright and true. 

Frenchmen loved of yore 
Clash of sword and spear ; 
Still is cannon's roar 
Music to our ear. 

France is Europe's Queen ; 
Nations own her sway ; 
Who dares come between ? 
To her " Yea ! " say (( Nay ? " 



What ! is Jena's story 
Waxed already old ? 
When proud Prussia's glory 
In the dust was rolled. 

When, mid fear and blunder, 
King and kingdom fell ; 
While peals of Gallic thunder 
Toll'd their funeral knell. 

And are we and they 
No longer the same men ? 
And shall Jena's day 
Ne'er be fought again ? 



Forward ! Every One ! 
Each his w r eapon bare ! 
France is marching on : 
Forward ! Vive la Guerre ! 



CRY OF THE BOULEVARDS. 

February, 1871. " Apees ! ,! 

Hence, ye conquering Teutons ! 

Low your foemen lie : 
Leave us, crushed and broken, 

In our blood to die. 

Loose your iron hand-grasp ; 

Lift your trampling heel ; 
Cease the blare and clashing 

Of the trump and steel. 

Go ! amid the curses 

Of a conquered land : 
Go ! to wait the coming 

Of the avenger's hand. 

Fear not France forgetting 

Debts like this to pay : 
Soon a bloodier morrow 

Shall whiten o'er to-day. 

Think not France is signing 

Bonds of peace and love : 
Can the vanquished Eagle 

<^oo like cushat dove . 



While consenting fingers 
Guide the weeping quill, 

Sword-blades leap from scabbards, 
And burn for battle still. 



Go, then, mid the curses 
Of down-trampled men ; 

But woe be to the conquered 
When we two meet again ! 



SUNSHINE 



Sunshine !, how glorious 
Is thy welcome ray ! 

Light in might victorious — • 
Sunshine ! round us stay. 

All that's fair and lovely, 
Lovelier grows in light : 

Even Tombs and Deserts 
Blossom and look bright. 

Heaven above is shining ; 

Earth beneath is fair : 
Joy and gladness reigning, 

Sunshine everywhere. 

And the bells are ringing 
Over wave and shore, 

Like glad Seraphs singing, 
" Rejoice for evermore." 



Just so sweet is sunshine 
In the world of Home : 

There should gloom and tempest 
Never — never come ! 

There should gladsome voices 

Echo loving smiles, 
As each heart rejoices, 

And Love pain beguiles. 

Warmth and light are beaming ; 

Gaily speed the hours ; 
Thoughts and hearts are opening, 

Like unfolding flowers. 

No murmur or repining ; 

No word that maketh sore ; 
But Love with Song entwining, 

" Rejoice for evermore." 



Call we, then, the spirits 
From the vasty deep, 

Who bring true heart-gladness, 
Not who frown and weep. 



3 



Come they lightly — brightly, 

Through our open door ; 
Joy and laughter bringing, 
Chimes of sweetness ringing, 
Angel-matins singing, — 
" Rejoice for evermore." 



LEAVES FKOM AN OLD BOOK. 



She came— -like a Beam of Sunshine, 

Gladdening the world below : 
Hearts were light, and smiles were bright, 

And tears forgot to flow. 

She passed — like a cloud of darkness, 

O'ershadowing tree and hill : 
The cloud departs ; but on our hearts 

That shadow lingers still. 

She fled — like a fading spirit, 

Silent — unseen — alone ! 
No voice was heard — no parting word ; 

Simply — she was gone. 



Gone ! ah, what tones of sadness 

In that little word may lie ! 
The deep death-toll, for the passing soul, 

Knells not more mournfully ! 

Oh ! why should hours of gladness 
So swift their course have run ? 

Or heart from heart be torn apart, 
Which Heaven had link'd in one ? 

One little word of openness 

That evil spell had broken : 
One kind word, in kindness heard ; 

But it ne'er was spoken. 

And so through Life's dark wilderness, 
Each wandering where we may, 

With drooping head, and mournful tread, 
We take our separate way. 



BOTTLES BBEAKING— HO! 



A TRACT FOR THE TIMES. 



" What's the matter with the Bottles ? 
Bursting are they, every one : 
Yesterday smash'd half-a-dozen ; 
Now another batch is gone ! 

" What's the matter with the Bottles ?— 
All the skins were tight and true ; 
Good, sound, orthodox old Flagons ; 
Solid leather — through and through ! " 

* What's their date ? and who the maker ? 
Sure these forms seem somewhat old ! — 
And the Wine that was inside them : 
May its birth be fairly told ? ' 

" Ah ! the skins are somewhat ancient; 
What their date we cannot say ; 
But the Wine is this year's vintage, 
Bottled only yesterday. 



2 



" Turbulent, and wild, and vigorous, 
Yeasting like an angry sea ; 
Nothing short of Oak or Iron 
Such could hold resistingly." 

' Then, pray, why not make your Bottles 
Of the sturdy stuff you name ? 
Fit to hold the wine put in them ; — 
Bold in form and strong in frame ? 

\ What's the matter with the Bottlees ? 
Sure they, too, are somewhat old : 
Of a like date with the Bottles, 
If such truth may dare be told. 

6 Heed them not ; tread full the Wine-press 

Pour the generous juice around : 
Freely flowing — ruddier growing ; 

Stain the garments ; flood the ground. 

' Let the wine-vat seethe and bubble ; 

Room, air, light, and freedom give : 
Heed not yet the form or colour ; 
Let it grow to life, and live. 

6 Bottles are but chains and prisons ; 
Let the young Juice freely shine : 
Care we nought for flask or flagon ; 
What we want is strong, rich Wine. 



' Fill the glass, cup, horn, or bowl ; 
Heed not what we drink it from, 
So it cheer the panting soul, 

Slake our thirst, our spirits warm. 

' All its roughness time will mellow, 
As the wine w r orks in the w r ood : 
Bottles — we'll discuss to-morrow ; 
To-day — draw it, strong and good ! ' 



S. G. 



Jttne 30, 1870. 



DICKENS. 



In Memoriam, 

With scarce a heaving of the breast — 

Without a cry, or parting groan, 
Like one who sinks to Nature's rest, 
He laid him down. 

No gorgeous tornb — no column raise, 

To glorify the dust below ; 
Nor pour the pealing hymn of praise, 
Or wail of woe ! 

But on this white memorial stone, 

Which o'er his silent couch you rear, 
Carve deep the honoured name alone, 
And leave it there. 

Warm memories gather round the bed 

Where cold and still his ashes lie : 
Till these be withered all and dead, 
He cannot die ! 

S. G, 



July, 1870. 



A LEGEND OF CULLODEN. 



In the dark days of Scotland, (1745,) one of the young Camerons— 
a Boy yet under age — became involved in the Rebellion. He was 
taken; — his life was forfeited. The Duke of Cumberland did not 
abound in mercy : we all know how the best blood of Scotland flowed 
like water. 

The Father of this youth— now an elderly man — had remained loyal 
to the Government. He implored the Duke to consider the age of the 
young Rebel. The Duke was inexorable. He seemed to be thirsting 
for blood. The old Cameron told him so ; and again implored him — 
it is said, even on his knees — to let him die in his Son's place. After 
much difficulty and negotiation, the Duke at length consented to the 
exchange ; "for," said he, "the Father, in his heart, is probably the 
greater rebel of the two." 

The Son, who heard of the offer, would not listen to it. But his 
consent was not asked, |ior his remonstrance heeded. His Father 
visited him in prison ; took such a farewell as belonged to such a part- 
ing ; then returned to his quarters, wrote his Boy a letter, of which 
the following lines are a paraphrase, and then resigned himself to the 
death — as it was in those days — of a Rebel. So runs the legend. 



FAREWELL. 



Farewell ! my gallant Boy ! 
A bright and brave adieu ! 
Dash off the tear ! — I joy to bear 
The load I lift from you. 

With grateful thanks I pour 
My old heart's blood for thee : 
The prison chain, the parting pain, 
Will lightly sit on me. 

I'm an old worn-out Carle, 
All ready for the grave : 
My race is run ; my setting sun 
Is sinking in the wave. 

But thine is dawning o'er thee, 
Above this threatening cloud : 
Long years may fade ere death's cold shade 
Shall wrap thee in its shroud. 

Then grieve not o'er the ransom ; 
Right lovingly 'tis given : 
Earth's joy be thine — God's trust be mine ; 
We'll meet again in Heaven. 



But yet, bethink thee. Laddie, 
I've bought thee with my blood : 
See that thou stand, voice, heart, and hand. 
Among the Brave and Good. 

Play thou a man's part nobly 
On Life's tempestuous tide ; 
Then 'neath the sod, I'll bless my God, 
'Twas for my Bov I died. 



April, 1870. 



TWICE DEAD! 



A soul lay dead within the sepulchre — 

Dead, not asleep. It did not gently rest 

In calm, unconscious, silent, deep oblivion, 

Reposing from the cares and toils of life ; 

But still its dark and lonely vigil kept 

In its own tomb — by its own bed of death. 

Yes, it was dead, though waking — watching still : 

Hope, fear, grief, joy, desire, and love were gone : 

Xo pulse of life — no glad, warm, sentient being ; 

Only the sense of loneliness and wakefulness ; 

Only that wearied, watchful, tearless eye. 

O'er present, past, and future, there was shed 

A cold, pale twilight, colourless and blank — 

Still, sombre, lifeless, where the dull, dim eye 

Wander' d — wander'd — seeing, searching nothing. 

Into that dark and lonely sepulchre 
There stole a beam of sunshine, a wand'ring ray 
From heaven, seeking to shed the blessing of its light 
Upon some sad, solitary, weeping spirit. 
It came — it shone, and did not pass away, 
But seem'cl to linger, as 'twould make its home 
In that dark cell. Like silent, watchful love, 
Diffusing through the air its heavenly light, 



2 



It made that tomb a quiet oratory, 

Where Heaven could commune with the listening soul, 

And whisper thoughts to waft it to the sky. 

Then came a Voice, gentle and sweet, breathing 

Through the still air — the Sister of the Sunbeam — 

And spoke in tones which, like that wand'ring ray, 

Whispered of life and joy — of peace and heaven : 

" Awake ! arise ! and live and love again ! " 
So breathed the gentle Voice ; and from the walls 
Of that lone sepulchre there seemed to whisper 
Echoes, like answering spirits ; and they said, — 

" Again ! again ! — live ! live and love again ! " 

Softly — sweetly — silently, that soul awoke : 
It gazed and listened — breathed and lived again. 
Once more it felt, remembered, loved, hoped, prayed ; 
Fountains of joy were opened in its depths ; 
And God's own voice seemed speaking from above. 
No longer now it mourned its lonely lot ; 
For henceforth there was no more solitude 
In that bright dwelling ; and that gentle Voice, 
And that sweet heavenly Beam, were the companions 
Of its new-born life, and made this earthly tomb 
Like a bright mansion of the blest above. 

A few short blessed hours — bright, heav'nly, fleeting ; 
Then came a change : the Sunbeam was departed. 
Silent and suddenly, as first it stole 
Upon the wings of darkness, so it vanished. 



3 



It had breathed no word of greeting or of parting : 

Only 'twas gone — gone ! never, never more 

To shed its blessed light through that lone dwelling, 

Or call the watching soul from its dark vigil, 

As with the daw T ning of eternity ! 

The Voice, too, was gone ; — the music of its tones 

No longer murmured round those silent walls, 

And woke the grateful echoes with its sweetness ; 

No longer did it commune with that soul, 

And open all the deep, deep wells of its being ; 

Now T soothing the tired spirit — now aspiring, 

On seraph-wings, to the bright throne above. 

That one brief gleam of life and joy was o'er ; 

The sepulchre was now once more a tomb. 

Darkness came down again upon that soul : 
Darkness ! but not death — not grateful, sweet oblivion. 
Still, still it lived, though nought was left but life ; 
Nor aught of life, but consciousness to pain — 
To the remembrance of that one hour of heaven, 
And the hot thirst for love, and life, and joy. 
In the long past, Solitude had had one meaning : 
Now it had another. It was no longer 
Dull, slow, dead, lonely watching ; 
Feeling, desiring, hoping, loving nothing : 
Now 'tw T as sharp agony — longing, longing 
For the companionship that had become 
Part of its being. Now 'twas indeed alone 
In the wide universe, and felt it was alone : 



The past threw its dim shadow o'er eternity — 
O'er those dark, fathomless, everlasting years ! 

Sleep ! Death ! deep Oblivion ! shed thy blessing ; 
Close the strain'd eye, and still that throbbing heart, 
And let the tortured spirit sink to rest ! 



BEATEN ! BEATEN ! 



Tell me now, my saddened Soul ! 
Tell me where we lost the day, 
Failed to win the shining goal, 
Slacked the pace, or missed the way. 

We are beaten ; — face the truth : 
'Twas not thus we thought to die, • 
When the prophet-dreams of youth 
Sang of joy and victory. 

Yes, we own Life's battle lost : 
Bleeding, torn, we quit the field ; 
Bright success — Ambition's boast — 
Here to happier men we yield. 

And if some strong hero's sword 
Had struck down my weaker blade, 
Not one coward, moaning word 
Had the weeping wound betrayed. 

But I see the battle won 
By less daring hearts than mine : 
Feebler feet the race have run ; 
Humbler brows the laurels twine. 



See there ! at the glittering goal. 
See that smiling winner stand ! 
Measure him from head to sole — 
Tis no giant of the land. 

Can I to that winner bow, 
And declare how well he ran ? 
No : I only murmur now, — 
" Beaten ! by a poorer man." 

" Perhaps he sought a lowlier prize." 
True ; but what he sought he won ; 
While the stars that gemmed my skies, 
Quenched in darkness, all are gone. 

Yet, perchance, that star-like prize 
Is not lost — but, not yet won : 
Lift aloft thine earth-bound eyes ; 
Seek the goal still farther on. 

Far beyond that sinking sun 
Swells a brighter, happier shore : 
There a nobler race is run : 
Hark ! He bids thee try once more. 



April. 1871. 



MY PEISON SONG. 



At length the shadow's darkening : 
'Tis time to say, " Good night ! " 
Not that my race is run, 
Or my declining sun 

Is setting — quite : 
Some hours of evening light 

May still be won ; 
Yet, ere my day is done, 

I bid " Good night ! " 

My chamber door I close ; 
Not on my couch to lie : 
I do not seek repose, 

Nor mean to die : 
I still may calmly watch 

The fading light ; 
I still may do some work 

By taper bright ; 
But the world and I have parted ; 

We've said, " Good night ! " 



2 



It may be some who love me 

Will meet and love me still ; 
My gate will aye be open, 

Let enter he who will : 
Yes, welcome all kind comers 

Who jar my prison door ; 
Who bring a ray of outer day 

To play upon my floor : 
But the world and Heaven's blest sunshine 

Will see my face no more. 

I soon shall be forgotten : 

But I shall not forget : 
Though the scene I love I'm leaving, 

My heart there lingers yet. 
Ill look out from my window 

On the life-stream foaming by ; 
I'll watch the fight for Truth and Right, 

And poor Humanity ; 
And some shall hear a warm heart-cheer, 

Who cannot trace the cry. 

And though my tongue be silent, 

Though empty now my place ; 
Though ne'er again my fellow-men 

Will meet me face to face ; 
Yet still some angel missive, 

From forth my hermit cell. 



3 



May gently stir the list'ning air, 

Like toll of evening bell ; 
And to the hearts that love me 

Some thought or feeling tell ; 
Till murmuring round a dying sound 

Shall breathe the word, " Farewell. 



A POETKAIT 



Silent, blind, companionless, 

Here alone I sit : 
As a lamp, extinguished, 

Waits to be re-lit. 

Gazing towards the Future, 
Dreaming o'er the Past, 

Wondering how much longer 
Twilight vet may last ; 

Wondering why I linger ; 

Why thus waiting stand ; 
While Time points the finger 

Towards the silent Land. 

Books lie closed around me ; 
Voices of the Dead : 

Bright with mirth or wisdom- 
Waiting to be read. 

But if every letter 
In them were a Sun, 

Flooding worlds in glory, 
I could not see one ! 



Soon a geiiile footstep 
Enters at the door, 
' And like mufrled music. 
Softly treads the floor. 

Then come lights and voices, 
Song and laughter gay : 

And Night's wing of darkness 
Brighter grows than day. 

Wide the volumes open ; 

Column'd sheets are spread i 
We listen how the world wags, 

Or Planets overhead. 

News from Earth's explorers, 
Storms where wise men meet, 

Calm, deep thoughts of thinkers, 
Gather round my seat. 

Though the crystal Eye-gate 

Closed be by a tear, 
Loving voices pour them 

Through the Postern Ear, 

Life and Light are kindling 
Round me where I sit : 

Love, and Home, and Beauty, 
Have the Lamji re-lit ! 



S. G. 



April 30, 1872. 



GUDE NIGHT, DONALD! 



Dig my grave, Donald ! — dig my grave, 

And lay my pillow-stane : 
I've lingered here too lang, Donald ; 

I'm wearying to be gane. 

They're a' gane but me, Donald ; 

They're some gate far abune ; 
But, och ! I'm near them now, Donald : 

I'll see their faces soon. 

O Donald, mon ! I'm weary : 

Now lay me on my bed ; 
And say some solemn heaven- word 

Above me when I'm dead. 



The world and I are parting ; 

It's drifting frae my sight : 
A's growing dark aboot me ; — 

Noo, Donald, mon ! Gucle Night 



October 20, 187L 



THE EVENING BELL. 



Through the still air I hear a distant bell 
Swing its glad greeting o'er the evening wave; 
Or is it rather some sad, soft farewell 
Pealing its requiem o'er a closing grave. 

It may be both ; — the farewell is of earth ; 
The greeting is rung out from bells above : 
'Tis the glad welcome o'er a spirit's birth 
Into the Angel-land of Light and Love. 



June. 1871. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



Too soon he seemed to sink to rest, 
As one not ripe for reaping yet : 
While day still warmed the glowing west, 
His star had set. 

It sank not like a sinking Sun : 
It has not changed our day to night ; 
But yet we feel, now he is gone, 
We've lost some light. 

His long-familiar form and face 
Our saddened eyes are seeking still ; 
And, for awhile, his empty place 
No man can fill. 

He said he little cared to live, 
If Life were only not to die : 
The Life he longed for God must give 
Abundantly. 

No more he sins or suffers here ; 
His home is that unseen abode, 
Where he is gone, without a fear, 
To meet his God. 



July. 1871. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




